Shelter in the Wastes
by softcorecurls
Summary: My first story. A wasteland romance between the MC courier  female  and Boone. Rated M for future chapters filled with adult content! Mobster rape, rescue, and romantic recovery.
1. Chapter 1

Dahlia sighed and wiped the line of sweat forming at her upper lip. The sun was setting in the Mojave Desert, and it was time to pack up and head to the gates of Freeside for the night. She didn't fancy sleeping in the Wastes, campfire or no, so she signaled Boone from his post and shouldered her supply bag. Boone capped the sights on his sniper rifle and waited for Dahlia to lead the way.

That's the way it was with them—words were never needed, Dahlia simply knew that her friend would stick close behind, keeping watch over her shoulder as he followed wherever she led. There was nothing more comforting in the dead, dry Wastes than catching the red of his NCR-issued beret out of the corner of her eye. In a land devoid of shelter, he made her feel safe.

They were a perfect team—quick and cunning, Dahlia would lure their enemies into his sights, and the fight was over before their victims knew what hit them. He was strong, silent, and a surprisingly good cook. She was light on her toes, charming, and knew how to pick a lock like nobody's business. Together, she believed they were invincible—a hard to come by feeling these days.

Before it was too dark, they made it to Freeside and set up camp on the second floor of an abandoned building. Boone hung tarps over the blown-out windows, lit a lantern and sat down on a cot to clean his gun while Dahlia rigged a few bear traps on the stairs. She preferred mines to the mess of traps and reminded herself to buy a few in the morning. Having to release the caught culprit from the rusty old traps always made her squeamish, so Boone usually had to do the cleanup.

After a long, hot, hard and unsuccessful day of gecko-hunting, Dahlia was ready to wind down with a barstool and a bottle of whiskey. Boone was never much of a drinker, so she'd be going it alone tonight. Once upstairs, she rummaged in her bag for some civilian clothes.

"Don't look," was all she said to Boone as she shrugged off her leather armor and shimmied into the slinky little pre-war number she'd found while looting a Nipton house earlier that week. She looked at herself in a shard of mirror she kept in her bag and sighed. Her pale skin was smudged with soot and sand, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tangled ponytail. The dress was frayed and ripped in certain places, but mostly intact. At least it wasn't covered in gecko-blood, she thought.

All the while, Boone watched her, this tiny slip of a girl he had chosen to follow. How could he have known that one girl could get herself into so much trouble? It seemed they had been all over Nevada and back, making fast friends and enemies of everyone they met. She just couldn't keep to herself, this one. Had to put her perky little nose in everybody's business. Just recently, she had convinced him to sneak into the home of a mob boss with her and steal his private records. And then she insisted on spending her nights in the local bars drinking and gambling with the resident scum.

But the glimpse of her lily white shoulder blades as she dressed kept him from objecting. He couldn't argue with her, she'd just flash those big, green, seemingly radioactive eyes and pout her lips a little and he would be like putty in her hands. From the time he saw her cock that red beret on her head and lead that wretched slaver into his crosshairs, he was hooked. He couldn't say no. She reminded him so much of his wife…the light-hearted laughter, the crinkle of her eyes when she smiled, the hitch in her step like she had no-place better to be. But he couldn't tell her that. He could only grunt his approval as she twirled around in the lamplight, white thighs gleaming through the swirl of silky material.

"Do you like it? And don't tell me to wear my armor underneath it, because that's just dumb. No one will bother me with my pistols at my side." Dahlia grinned and bent over to kiss her older companion on the forehead before she scurried out the door, calling "Don't wait up for me, and watch the back right window—there's a couple of boatflies milling about out there!"

So Boone went back to cleaning his gun with a gut feeling that something wasn't quite right.

The Atomic Wrangler casino was packed with drunks, prostitutes, gamblers and no-goods that night, same as any other. But the Garret twins ran that place with tight fists, and nothing happened there without their knowledge. When the courier Dahlia showed up without her bodyguard, James Garret shared an unnoticed glance with his sister, Francine.

She was well-known throughout the state at this point as an upstart young courier with a habit of making things happen—someone who was as likely to break into your house and rob you blind as she was to risk her life to help you out. Cursed by some and beloved by others, Dahlia was not someone to underestimate, and the Garret twins took this very seriously.

They had a rather profitable surprise planned for the courier that night, and had taken all necessary precautions to make sure everything went smoothly. The casino was crawling with security, and all windows and doors had been fortified for tonight. The customers had all been indulging in the special free drinks and none were even close to sober. Everything was in place as Dahlia sauntered up to the bar and asked Francine for a drink, 'something strong.' Oh, it would be strong, alright.


	2. Chapter 2

The Wrangler was in rare form that night, practically swarming with drunken Freesiders and belligerent gamblers. That was how Dahlia preferred things: just wild and crazy enough that she could just be an onlooker, but not so wild and crazy that she needed to duck for cover. The Wastes do strange things to people—she could hardly remember life with her parents, life in a house in a town, sleeping in a bed she could actually call her own. It all seemed so unreal now.

This was her life now: fighting to survive by day, falling asleep with a gun in her hand by night. Most nights, sleep was hard to find. Some nights she and Boone would find a good place to bunker down and they could both sleep soundly. Other nights they had to take turns keeping watch over the Wastes. Dahlia slept best after a few bottles of whisky.

As soon as she took a swig of it, Dahlia knew that she wasn't drinking the regular old watered-down whisky that the Garret twins usually served. She threw down the bottle and was halfway over the counter by the time it hit her. A few customers jumped at the sound of the breaking glass, but no one thought anything of it when a few of Garret's men carried her passed out form up the stairs. Just another fool that needed to sleep off their drink.

Dahlia came to in a brightly-lit room surrounded by Wrangler mercs. Last thing she remembered was trying to strangle James Garret, and it seemed the bartender had slipped her a little something extra and relieved her of her pistols. She could practically hear Boone's deep, resounding 'I told you so' in her throbbing head. When Dahlia tried to sit up, she realized her hands were cuffed behind her back and her legs were banded together. The mercs had left nothing to chance. She only noticed the gag when one of the men landed a solid, booted kick in her side. Damn. This was not good.


	3. Chapter 3

"The slavers are here." Francine Garret licked her lips—she could almost taste the caps. The plan was going perfectly, and now they needed to get the courier out of the casino before her friend came looking for her. She had never dealt with the Omertas before, but she knew that failure was not an option if she wanted to keep on living, which she did. The offer had been out of the blue—why would someone as rich and powerful as Nero Omerta have any interest in a ragtag little courier like her? But the Garrets weren't ones to ask questions before they counted the caps.

"Good. Blindfold her and take her out through the basement door. The caravan should be waiting there with the payment in full. Tell them not to stop until they get to New Vegas cause it'll be their asses on the line, not mine."

James entered the room behind his sister. "Is it really a good idea to be doing business with these…mobsters? We could keep her here, you know. I'm sure she'd make a fine escort."

Francine patted her brother's cheek condescendingly. "Don't you worry, Jamie. It will be well worth the risk. Besides, we have enough whores to go around. Or are you just dying for a chance to get at her yourself?"

James blushed, but was interrupted by the delivery of a briefcase full of caps. "No matter," Francine continued. "She's out of our hair now. Time to stop and smell the success."

Before Dahlia had the chance to catch her breath, more men entered the room and tied a piece of cloth over her eyes. She felt hands lift and carry her down several flights of stairs before chucking her into the wooden floorboards of a moving vehicle. Instinctively, she began thrashing about, moving her body as much as her bondage allowed. She felt her legs connect with something warm and heard someone above her swear loudly. But instead of the kick she expected in retaliation, a wet cloth was pressed up against her face and she blacked out.

Dahlia awoke knowing only that she was dealing with professional slavers. The combination of drugs, gags, bindings, and blindfolds ensured that she was going nowhere—well, except for wherever the slaver caravan was taking her. If only she'd stayed awake, she would at least known how long they had been traveling. A jolt that sent her flying into something hard let her know that they had stopped.

"Get her inside, quick," an unfamiliar voice barked. In response, she was thrown over someone's large shoulder, carried roughly up some stairs, and unceremoniously dumped in the floor. She kept still this time, waiting for whatever would come next.

After the jostling of the slavers was gone, there was silence, and Dahlia began to realize the severity of her situation. There were plenty of people who wanted her dead, and the Garrets had probably sold her to someone with a grudge. So now here she was, most likely awaiting her execution when she should have been sleeping soundly on her lumpy cot next to Boone. Boone…he was probably starting to get worried about her by now.

She could see his eyes, angry and narrow through his sunglasses, his solemn forehead furrowed as he worked on his rifle. How long would he hold out hope for finding her? How many days, weeks, months would he spend in and out of every town, asking for her, before he gave up? Another woman stolen from him by slavers. Not that she was like a wife to him or anything, but she knew how hard it was to go back to living alone.

Just then, the sound of a door opening distracted her from her maladies. This time, the voice sounded familiar...


	4. Chapter 4

I don't own Fallout New Vegas or the characters.

"If it isn't the infamous desert courier, Dahlia Reed." The voice was in her ear now, breath on her neck. "Seems my sources were wrong. I was told you wouldn't go down without a fight." A strong finger traced a threat down her jaw line. "Ha! You look like a helpless little girl on the wrong side of town to me." The gag was yanked from her mouth, causing Dahlia to sputter incoherently for a few moments while rough hands sat her up against a wall and the blindfold was torn from her eyes.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a fireplace and focused on the face before her. "Nero," she croaked, "Nero Omerta…" The dark man stood up, towering over her, and Dahlia looked around. They were in his suite at Gomorrah, she was sure of it. She had picked the lock one night while his thugs weren't watching and stolen a few caps from his dresser while he was sleeping. But surely that's not why he went through all that trouble to bring her here, all for a few caps?

"I hear you've been making quite a name for yourself in New Vegas, Ms. Reed. Sal seems to think you're the one interfering with our plans." Nero paced in front of her, looking her up and down like a cut of meat. "Now tell me, what business does a sweet little thing like yourself have with the Omertas?"

Her head spinning, Dahlia tried to remember her dealings with the Omerta family. There was something about Cachino's diary…a stockpile of guns and a plan to take over the Vegas strip. Didn't Boone always tell her not to stick her nose in other people's business? Knowing things was enough to get you killed in a place like this.

So she lied, right through her gritted teeth. "None at all. I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go, Omerta, or I _will_ have business with your family."

But Nero just smiled, a crooked, sinister thing. "Don't play dumb with me, courier. I know that Cachino contacted you."

"Cachino? Never heard of him."

"I had my men take care of him for me. But a dead man's name is of no use to me. I didn't bring you here to silence you."

"So why am I here? I'm no threat to your plans, and I have nothing you don't already have."

"Your name has power. It means something to these people, and it has inspired me as well. With you by my side, this city wouldn't stand a chance." His eyes gleamed wickedly as she bent down to take hold of her chin, turning her face up to look him in those dancing embers. "You intrigue me, Ms. Reed, and I intend to keep you with me."

Then she bit down on his hand as hard as she could.

Jumping back with a roar, Nero held his limp, bleeding hand and grinned at her. "I see that you will not go easily, as they said. Well, any wild dog can be trained by the right master. Where else in the Wastes can you find such luxury? Armed guards, three course meals, clean water, a warm bed…a warmer companion…" His eyes drifted over her in a lusty haze. "Don't worry, I'll have you eating eagerly from these hands soon enough, mutt." With that, he was gone and Dahlia was alone with her thoughts once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Boone had waited up all night for Dahlia. As the sun was rising, he kept expecting to hear her stumble up the stairs, set off the traps and swear loudly. But the sound of her footsteps on the stairs never came. As soon as it was light enough to travel (relatively) safely, he packed up everything and headed to the bar. She wasn't slumped over on a barstool, sleeping it off upstairs, or rolling dice at the tables, and the Garret twins denied her ever being there.

Although it wouldn't be the first time Dahlia had wandered off somewhere without telling him, she was always back by sun-up. Something was wrong, but he decided he ought to make sure she wasn't laying out drunk in a gutter somewhere before roughing up the Garret twins for info. He didn't want to think about what the alternatives were just yet.

The streets of Freeside at dawn reeked of the night before, and there was still no sign of Dahlia. Mick and Ralph hadn't seen her, she hadn't been to The Silver Rush or the old Mormon fort, and no one had seen her leave Freeside. Before he started cracking skulls, Boone thought of one last place in Freeside he needed to check. A certain King still owed Dahlia a favor, and Boone was planning to cash it in.

... ... ...

After the biting incident, Dahlia had been mostly left alone. A few thugs would come in now and then to check on her and mock her, but Nero hadn't been back. How long had it been now? A day, maybe two? And she was hungry. The sound of her stomach growling was often the only sound in that dark, ornate room. Had they forgotten to feed her? It didn't matter, because she refused to resort to asking her captor for food. Of course, a few more days of this and her tune might change.

All this time hadn't been completely unproductive, though. Seated next to the corner of an exposed brick edge on the wall, Dahlia had been slowly whittling away at the thinnest link that connected her cuffs. It was difficult to maneuver her legs in a useful way with the tight, strong elastic binding them together at her thighs and calves. The bands were beginning to cut the circulation off from her legs, and she had been trying to find a raised floorboard or nail to snag them on and maybe allow her to shimmy out of the bands.

But even if she had enough time alone to do that, there was still the question of getting out of the room. There wasn't much in the way of a weapon in the room without making a loud noise to break a leg off of a chair or a bedpost off the four-poster. There might be a letter opener or something sharp in the desk drawers, though.

The door didn't seem locked, but that probably meant that there were guards posted nearby to keep her in or others out. If she could ever manage to get out of these bands…she would have to hope that the element of surprise would be enough to get her out of there. She was fast, but if they cornered her, well…there was no way she could sweet talk her way through a wall of armed mobsters. And then Nero would either double the security or decide she wasn't worth the trouble and that would be the end of that.

With all of these plans formulating in her head, she didn't hear the door open.

"So, little mutt, feeling ready to cooperate yet, or do you need more convincing? Because I'll be happy to oblige you." Nero's voice held an audible smirk, like this was all one big, hilarious joke to him.

Forgetting the hunger that grew steadily in the pit of her stomach, Dahlia spit at his shiny shoes. "Screw you, Omerta." The way that smile stretched across his face in the firelight gave her chills. She actually felt glad to have those god-awful bands on her legs—if he wanted to get in her pants, he'd have to remove the bands, and she sure as hell was going to send a few well-placed kicks in his direction when he did.

Well-fed or not, she figured she was still stronger than he wanted to deal with. Try anything too soon, and he might find himself out-maneuvered and out-witted. _He'll wait it out and wear me down before he gives me the chance to 'cooperate,'_ she thought. _If Boone has caught the trail by now, I could be free by morning, even. _While the thought of Boone busting into the Omerta headquarters or wherever she was and rescuing her from a small army of well-armed thugs was far-fetched at best, she had to hold on to something.

"Suit yourself."

Hadn't Boone warned her to watch her tongue? Nero yanked her up by the hair and Dahlia heard the resounding crack of the slap before she felt it. The sting of his backhand pulled her back to reality. He was powerful—not just through his money or his goons or his shady business—but there was a raw physical power there, more than she had estimated. But now, hanging at the end of his clenched fist and sputtering, his body seemed to dwarf hers.

She turned her face to look him in the eyes as the second hit connected with the side of her head. By the seventh slap or so, she decided to keep her head down—there was no reason to provoke him into weakening her further if she wanted to hold out any hope of escaping. Easier said than done, though. He let go and she collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"We can do this one of two ways, Ms. Reed. You can come to your senses and cooperate with me freely, or I can smoke you out of your shell and force you to cooperate." He was pacing back and forth on the wooden floors again, stressing his point with every step. "You are a skilled courier and a fascinating woman with alliances and influence all over the Mojave. I would hate to break such a rare spirit when I could have you stand willingly with me."

At this, he bent down in front of her and held the back of her head so that she was looking at him. "You'll find I am a fair employer and a passionate lover, Ms. Reed. You will still be able to roam the Wastes delivering messages for me and recruiting for my cause, but with armed guards and adequate housing and provisions. And when you aren't working, you will share my bed and enjoy New Vegas, all on my tab. It's a generous offer. Think of it: no more sleeping in abandoned buildings and running yourself ragged for food and shelter. No more dirty water and pilfered clothing."

He let go of her and stood up again. "I am asking you to be my business partner, my mistress, my muse. But if you refuse, you will have to work your way up from being my dog." He moved towards the door to leave, saying one last thing: "And know that I have never met a bitch I couldn't properly train."

Then he was gone, leaving only a sinking feeling in Dahlia's empty stomach and a dull ringing in her ears.


	6. Chapter 6

The King was genuinely sad to hear of Dahlia's disappearance.

"You know, she helped out my people a time or two. Hell, she helped the King out of some tight places! Kept the solider boys from warring with my Kings, got me important intel, you know. Even brought Rex here a new brain!" The King dismissed the whores from his heart-shaped bed and waited till the door was closed.

"So here's what I'm gonna do for you: I'll send a few of my Kings to rough up those twins a bit, see what they know. And maybe one-a my kings has seen her. My own men won't keep secrets from me. That oughta get you on the right track."

"Thanks," Boone nodded as he headed out the door.

"Hey, wait," the King called him back. "Take old Rexie here. Give him her scent and he might be able to catch a whiff of her here and there. Not to mention he's good in a fight. And he don't like hats."

The mechanical dog ran to Boone's side, warily watching his red beret. Boone squatted down next to Rex and patted his head. "I'm keeping the hat."

"Whatever you say, man. Take care of Rexie, and good luck."

With a steel glint in his eyes and his square jaw set against the odds, Boone stood up. "Don't worry, I'll find her."

... ... ...

When he went back to the Atomic Wrangler, Boone heard a commotion in the back room behind the bar. It was Francine's voice, begging for her life. He figured it was the Kings, set on the Garret twins by the King, but when he opened the door, two men in suits turned on him with tire irons. He set his feet and backed into a corner, ready for a fight. They came at him from both sides, and he was glad he'd worn his heavier armor that day. He wished he had kept his gun out, but he was a well-trained fighter with a sharp-biting dog at his side, not exactly someone to mess with.

Keeping his guard up, he watched for openings. They weren't hard to find, what with Rex biting at their legs and barking the whole time. He took a few good hits to his arms and heard the tire irons scrape against Rex's metal body, but these guys had no idea how to block. First one to raise his arm too far up got a hit to the kidney—down. The other got sloppy from seeing his friend fall and let his guard down by his neck. It's hard to stay up and moving after a jab to the neck. He stayed on top of him, wrapped him up on the ground and beat him senseless.

No need to kill them, but Boone couldn't let them go back to whoever'd sent them. He pulled Rex off of their unconscious bodies and picked up a tire iron. Broken ankles ought to slow them down. Now to deal with Francine.

She was laying on the ground, breathing heavily and fast like she was in pain. Her eyes flashed with fear when Boone stepped away from his victims and didn't move to help her up.

"My legs…I can't move my legs…" It looked like the men had broken several bones in each leg. "James…where is James?" She was frantic, but Boone needed info before he was going to help her out.

"Who are these men? Why did they do this to you?"

"The men…" her breathing was staggered. "He sent them to…tie up loose ends. Didn't want…anyone to know…" Boone heard a voice in the bar calling out Francine's name. "James! Oh thank the Wastes…James…" she was breaking down into sobs as the other Garret twin entered the room. Boone, who was behind him, grabbed him from behind and forced him to the ground with a knee in his back. James let out a shriek and crumpled to the ground.

"Don't hurt him! I'll tell you everything if you promise to leave us alone." That was what Boone wanted to hear. He quickly tied up James without a word and turned back to Francine.

Pulling Francine by the collar so that she was looking him right in the eyes, he growled, "where is Dahlia?"

She was silent for too long, so Boone gave James a solid kick to the gut. Then Rex snarled, showing his sharp teeth to her. That got her talking, and Boone realized that he and the robo-dog made a pretty good team.

"His offer was…generous. Not just in caps—he promised to talk up our business, help us to open up a branch on the Strip, supply us with alcohol, card tables, roulettes, new dancers…the works. And if I didn't take him up on it, he said that he would kill James and burn The Atomic Wrangler to the ground. I had no choice!" Her voice was breaking, sobs choking her words.

"What happened to Dahlia?" The question was shouted like a threat.

"He hired slavers to pick her up last night. I gave her a mixture of agave, Turbo and gin. It's harmless, really. Just knocks the drinker out for a while. She was completely unharmed when we turned her over to the slavers, I swear!"

In a voice shaking with anger, Boone asked one last question. "Who hired the slavers and where can I find him?"

"Omerta. Nero Omerta. He runs the Gomorrah casino on the strip. I'm sure that's where he's taken her, it's one of the most heavily guarded buildings in Nevada." He let her go and pulled out his knife. "Please, he was going to kill James! I had no other choice…" With heavy steps he approached James, causing him to flail about in terror.

"Be still." He kneeled next to him and cut the ropes around his wrists and ankles, freeing him. Boone grabbed a bottle of water off the shelf and walked out the door. "Come on, Rex. They aren't worth their weight in dog food."


	7. Chapter 7

When Mick and Ralph said the passport would take a few days to make, Boone thought his head was going to explode. But there was no other alternative: the Strip was heavily guarded and there was no way Boone could come up with the entrance fee in time. So he would just have to hang around the workshop until the fake passport was finished. And hang around he would—watching over their shoulders with a rifle the entire time.

He had already lost one woman to slavers, and once he got Dahlia back, he swore he would never let her out of his sights again.

… … …

Dahlia had no idea how long she had been tied up in this room. Omerta's men kept the fire going, and there were no windows. They were getting bolder in their harassment too. She had been called innumerable names, kicked a few times and spit on. She couldn't wait to stab them in the back with a letter opener (if she ever got her hands on one, that is.) But there was one who was different. He was well-shaved and dressed better than the rest in a sweater vest, and never seemed to have a reason to be there like the others. When he came in, he would just sit in a chair nearby and stare at her, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

The first few times, Dahlia ignored him. But after what seemed like forever without any real human contact, she decided to speak to him. When she asked his name, he bolted out of the chair and left the room. She wanted to ask someone to bring her food and water, but she couldn't bring herself to ask the ones who would kick her around and call her a dirty little whore. Nero would come back sooner or later, and if he didn't want his new pet to die, surely he would bring her some food.

But he didn't come and he didn't come, and the courier felt as though her stomach was turning inside out. Her lips were parched and dry as she struggled to form the words, "Nero, get me Nero…"

… … …

"She's askin' for you, boss."

Finally. Much longer and Nero would have had to force feed the courier to keep her from suffering any real damage. He put away his paper work and told his secretary to finish the stack. How much he would relish having her eat out of the palm of his hand like a sick child. Everyone has a breaking point, and he couldn't wait to witness the courier at hers. It would be beautiful.

… … …

It made her sick to say his name like that, pleading for her life. It hadn't taken long for the hunger and thirst and boredom to get to her—but she hadn't given up hope just yet. She just needed to keep her energy up, and voluntarily starving herself because of her pride was just stupid. If rescue ever came, she wanted to be ready to fight her way out of this place.

She almost changed her mind when she saw Nero's smug face come through the door. He was holding a glass of ice water and a small loaf of bread. "Well, well. Has the poor little pup had enough?"

It took everything Dahlia had not to spit on his shoes again. Shaking with an anger she hoped he mistook for weakness, she whispered, "Please, I'm so thirsty…"

"Come now, let's get you comfortable." Nero sat down the glass and bread and gingerly picked her up and placed her on the bed. She hated to admit it, but after what seemed like days of lying on a wooden floor, the pillows and blankets of the bed felt incredible. She let out an accidental coo of approval.

"I had no idea you were so eager to go to bed with me. However, you must eat and get your strength back first," he chuckled, holding the glass up to her lips. Thirst overtook her—she drank down the glass in a matter of seconds and asked for more.

"Ah-ah. Too much too soon will make you sick. Now here, try to eat a little bread." Nero tore off a small piece of the loaf and fed it to her, enjoying the power he held over her. She ate eagerly from his hands, and when the food was gone and she'd had another glass of water, the look of compliance in her eyes was unmistakable.

"You've done well, my pet. But you still must earn my trust. If I remove these restraints, do you promise to behave yourself? Keeping in mind that any disobedience will be severely punished." It was obvious to Dahlia that he completely believed her good dog act. If she could just keep it up long enough to gain a chance at freedom…

"It hurts, Nero…please, take them off. I will be good, I promise." She put on her best puppy dog eyes and managed a whimper. Damn, this guy was gullible.

Nero moved from the bed and opened a door that led to a large bathroom. She heard faucets turn and running water. He returned carrying a washcloth and a small water basin. "These wounds need to be washed properly or the blisters may cause an infection. I'm going to remove your restraints, but one wrong move and my men will be here within seconds. And my trust is harder to earn the second time around, Ms. Reed."

Slowly, Nero undid all of her restraints and re-arranged her body on the bed. "Stay still."

Every muscle in her body screamed to _move_, to fight, to free herself…but she held her breath and bit her lip, knowing that now was not the time. _Stay still, stay quiet. Stay still, stay quiet._

First, he lifted each arm and gently washed from shoulder to fingertips, the cold but soft washrag making slow circles across her dirty skin. The amount of dirt on the rag embarrassed her a little when he had to switch to a new one every few minutes. Then, he worked his way from her toes to just above her knees where the dress fell. She would never admit it, but all this attention was beginning to turn her on, even if it was from her heartless captor.

With extreme gentleness, he washed her face, neck and leaned her against his arm to wash her back. But her self-control was really tested as he slipped the straps of her dress from her shoulder and began sliding the material down her body, revealing her skin inch by inch. When she felt the material snag on her now hard nipples, she was unable to control the knee jerk reaction of putting her hands up to cover herself.

Nero just laughed and firmly moved her hands to her side. Dahlia had to turn her head away as he ran the cold cloth over each breast, taking care to lightly pinch and pull at her dark nipples. _Stay still, stay quiet…_the words rolled about in her head like a mantra, barely keeping her hand from reaching up to strangle him as the dress was pulled all the way off. He washed her stomach and thighs before his fingertips came to rest just above her panty line.

"That's a good girl," he whispered as he hooked his talons into the sides of her panties and leaned over to take a nipple in his mouth. That was all Dahlia could take. Next thing he knew, there was a knee to his groin and he was sprawled across the floor, unable to see out of his right eye. Dahlia raced for the door, but as her hand reached for the knob, the door swung open and a flood of men knocked her to the ground.

A few men helped Nero to his feet. He held one bleeding eye in his hand and glared death at her with the other. "You'll regret that, bitch!" Then, to the other men surrounding her, "Bind and gag her. I will deal with her later." With that, a couple of his men helped him from the room and the others set on her with a vengeance.

_Holy shit, why couldn't I just grin and bear it? Now I'll never get out of this goddamned place…_


	8. Chapter 8

… … …

"Man, you have got to stop riding my back. And your hovering is stressing Ralph out. Look, he's losing hair!"

Boone stood over Mick's worktable, arms crossed and glaring like a centurion while Mick tinkered away at a text block. "I've still got more hair than you," Ralph barked. "But listen, Boone—you standing there isn't going to get the work done any faster. At least go out and get us something to eat, we're running out of fuel here."

"And swing by Dixon on your way back—some psycho would help get this passport finished faster." Boone left Rex to watch the men work as he headed out to find something to eat. Outside, the air was stale and orange. Every breathful of dust carried doubts and regrets into his head.

Maybe she's dead. Maybe she's dying. He shouldn't have let her go out that night. He should have gone out with her. He should have told her how pretty she looked in that dress. He should have grabbed her and never let go. He should have bought them a house in some peaceful little town on the west coast and given up the 'adventurer' gig altogether.

It was too late for that now. All that mattered was getting that passport and finding Dahlia. Plans of escape twisted their way into his brain, each less plausible than the next. Once he got that passport, he could scope out the area, ask around. Which probably would involve catching an Omerta thug outside the casino and beating him till he talked. And Boone was just fine with that.

… … …

The sight of Nero bloodied up and limping was almost worth the following onslaught of his men. Almost. Every part of her body ached. She was wrapped in a blanket now, but could see that her skin was varying shades of bruised and swelling all over. Her wrists were tied tightly together again, but at least those damned bands on her legs were gone.

Nothing seemed broken though, so obviously Omerta had given his men express orders not to break any bones with their beating. How kind. She was cut up, bruised and battered, but it was nothing that wouldn't heal within a month. That is, if she received medical attention, and soon.

A man in with a doctor's bag came in, but it was no doctor. Nero's expensive shoes squeaked menacingly on the floor as he approached her once again. When he squatted down next to her face where she lay beaten on the floor, Dahlia could see that he wore bandages across his eye from where she had clawed him. But her pride at the sight of his wounds couldn't overcome her fear at what his next move would be.

"You must think you're very clever, my pet." He chuckled as he began rooting through the doctor's bag at his side.

"Quit calling me your pet, Omerta, or I'll go for your good eye next time." Nero didn't seem fazed by her threat, in fact, he looked…amused. But there was no point in playing along anymore. She may as well die showing her true colors instead of acting as his submissive pet.

"Unfortunately, you won't have that chance." He pulled a bottle of blue liquid from the bag and an empty syringe. The needle glinted cruelly in the light of the fire as he filled the syringe and then signaled for his men to come in. Upon seeing the needle, Dahlia began to scramble away from Nero, trying desperately to use her arms and legs to move across the floor quickly and losing her blanket in the flurry of limbs. She wiggled herself into a corner and kicked weakly at the men who surrounded her.

A man grabbed each arm and pulled her up, now naked except for her underwear. Writhing uner their grips, she shouted, "Let me go! Put me down, fuckers!" But she wasn't strong enough to put up a real fight, and the men held her upright by her arms with her feet dangling. Nero stepped towards her with the needle.

"I hate having to control a pet with drugs, but it seems we have come to that. Your little games won't work on me anymore, Ms. Reed. You don't suffer from any previous addictions, do you my dear? It would be unfortunate to lose my pet to an accidental drug interaction."

"Go to hell," was the answer.

"I didn't think so. Hold her steady, boys." He wrapped her arm with a tight rubber band to better see her veins. "The effects are most immediate if I inject it directly into the veins," he explained plainly, as if she were a dog that needed to be put down.

He aimed the needle at a blue vein in her forearm. Dahlia was ashamed to hear her voice cracking as she whispered, "Nero, don't do this…"

He ignored her plea and said, "now take a deep breath, this may sting a bit," as the point of the needle bit through her skin and the liquid slid slowly into her vein. It burned like acid, spreading throughout her body like a brushfire. Nero withdrew the needle and the men let her fall to her knees before him.

"You might be interested to know that I had this drug specially concocted for me for use in the training of my pets. It's a unique mixture of Psycho, Jet, agave root and peyote, but the effects are entirely different from those of its ingredients. Right now, it is working its way into every vein, making you feel as if your entire body is on fire. Soon, the fire will feel good. It will leave you pliable, weak, passionate and wanting for more. When it begins to wear off after a few hours, you will experience a withdrawal like none you've ever known before. Only I have the drug, and only I have the antidote. And soon the infamous courier will lie broken at my feet."

The words hissed through his smiling teeth, lust dripping viscous from every word. Dahlia's vision became cloudy, darkening around the edges, and her head started to spin. Her insides were burning, prickling, itching, heated—and soon all she could see was his ever-widening smile. It seemed to consume her, to fan the flames higher, to laugh as she burned to death at the stake.

She was on her hands and knees now, gasping for breath, and even when she closed her eyes, there they were—his teeth like rows of tombstones, grinning her to death. Pounding the ground with her fists, she collapsed amidst the sea of men in suits, searching for something, anything, that wasn't his smile. A single name fell from her lips just before her thoughts took a last leap into the drug-induced oblivion: "Boone…"

... ... ...


	9. Chapter 9

… … …

Nero was immensely pleased with his pet's performance thus far. He had wanted a challenge, but he could never have dreamed she would put up this much of a fight. She was perfect—beautiful, energetic, clever and strong…how lovely she would look on a leash, tamed, kneeling at his feet. The thought of it made his blood rush.

And now here she was, crumbling before his very eyes, the drug taking its toll on her naked, lifeless form. Eventually, he would not need the drug to inspire admiration and obedience. He had seen the slow, painful turn from rebellion to worship before, but never before had it been so breath-taking. She was truly worthy of her reputation, and Nero congratulated himself on his choice of pet.

Dalia's breath started to come easier, softer, and Nero shooed his gaping thugs from the room. _I bet they'd love to see what I have in store for you, my pet, but they will have to wait their turns. _

As the pain subsided and Dahlia awakened to the full effect of the drug, Nero lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He was relieved to find her accommodating, but the dewy-eyed look she gave him as he laid her down was almost too much for him to handle.

_Tonight, you are all mine._

… … …

After nearly giving both Mick and Ralph stress strokes, Boone finally had his newly-faked passport in hand. The print was immaculate, the coding seemed spot-on—now to see if the Vegas Securitrons bought the ruse. _And if they don't?_ a small voice in the back of his head asked.

_Then I draw my rifle and sic Rex on the bots until I get in those damned gates._

But the Securitron scanned it and stamped it. _ Easy_. The gates began to screech open, slowly revealing the glowing steeples and neon cathedrals of Vegas. But Boone was not there for sightseeing. He made a mental checklist as he entered the city: Get stealthier weapons. He couldn't exactly waltz into the casino with his rifle on his back. Check out Gommarah. Look for entrances, exits, allies and enemies. Figure out how to get a disguise. Ask around about slaves, new girls in Gommarah.

He took a deep breath and bent down to scratch Rex behind the ears. _Now comes the hard part._

… … …

Eyes flicking periodically over Dahlia's almost naked body, Nero set his bag of tools on the bedside table. He was known to have a rare collection of pre- and post- war sexual devices, but he liked to keep the first time fairly basic. Instead of any of his multitudes of toys, he brought out his personalized branding iron and put it carefully in the embers of the fire so that it would heat, but not melt. The metal rod had the word "Gomorrah" written on the end with curvy script. Nero liked to brand his mistresses so that if they escaped, slavers would know where to return them to. First things first, though.

Dahlia was wriggling around in the bed, a look of pain and pleasure edging across her face. She was obviously still feeling the effects of the drug, and he sat down next to her and began softly stroking her legs. Now was the time to break her will, to make her his. When the effects wore off, memories of the encounter and her oncoming withdrawal would leave her weak, confused, fragile. For now though, he relished the slight trembling of her limbs as he moved his hands up and down the side of her body. "How do you feel, my pet?"

The voice was low and soothing, like aloe on her burning skin. The burning was inside her now, too, but it didn't hurt anymore. Something simmered under the surface there, begging to be touched, filled, doused. Her mind was a muddled mess, and she struggled to put together words for the beautiful stranger. "Hot…it's hot…"

"Poor thing…Let your master make it better." Nero held her hand in his, stoking the soft skin there before putting it to his lips in a gentleman-like kiss. Petting her head like a child, he smiled at her uncharacteristic whimper. She wanted more, but wasn't sure what of.

"And how does this feel?" Nero held her breasts in his palms, flicking the nipples back and forth like light switches. Her whole body responded—she gasped, leaning farther into his touch. Heat flooded her body, pooling in between her legs.

"I…don't know…" Dahlia could barely form sentences, her mind and emotions were racing one another to see which one would self-destruct first.

"What about…here?" Nero cupped her covered mound in one hand while the other continued its work on her nipple. Massaging lightly, he watched her back arch up high as she bucked around wildly, the fire seeming to spread.

"You are soaking wet. The fire feels good, doesn't it?" His hand slipped inside her panties, quickly finding her clit and lightly grazing it with his fingers. Her unfettered moan urged him on, and he dipped down to smear her juices around and continued his assault on her sensitive little nub. Dahlia had a stranglehold on his arm, knuckles turning white from the strain. It wasn't to stop his fingers from going further, but rather to anchor herself in the waves of pleasure that kept sweeping over her like rolling thunder.

Teasing, Nero held one finger at her entrance. Instead of pressing into her warm, welcoming slit, he stayed still, waiting. Dahlia could feel the need building, and the heaviness of his unmoving finger seemed to echo the emptiness inside of her.

"Tell me what you want, my pet." Then there was nothing but the desire to be filled, to close the emptiness and abandon herself to the flames.

"Don't stop—it's so hot inside…" Her words were whispered between great, rasping breaths. In response, he slipped a single finger inside and bent over to capture her small, pink lips in his, his tongue forcing its entry to her mouth. As he drank up the sighs that fell from the courier's lips, he moved his finger in and out slowly, making sure to hit her sweet spot each time.

She was writhing below him, crying out in ecstasy as he finger-fucked her. He added a second finger, scissoring them from the inside to open her up, and then a third. The drug had her juices overflowing, her blood rushing, her heart pounding. The sight was intoxicating.

The hint of whisky on her tongue and the feel of her tight, wet pussy wrapped around his hand was infuriating, maddening. Nero had reached his limit. He had to have her now, whether she was ready for him or not.

... ... ...


	10. Chapter 10

… … …

After a quick tour of Gomorrah to check out the floor plans and a stop by the suspicious stealth weapon vendor down the street, Boone was itching to get his hands on an attendant and their uniform. Blending in with the crowds of NCR soldiers that ran in and stumbled out of the strip was simple enough, but to get very far inside of Gomorrah, he'd need to disguise himself as one of the workers, not a patron. There was an unmonitored patio area out back where the workers went to take their smoke breaks, one hooker informed him, and for the right price, she was willing to lead an unsuspecting Omerta thug right into Boone's sights.

And so Boone waited as he had a hundred times before: crouched, hidden and gun to shoulder. And waiting had the terrible tendency of making a man think when all he wanted to do was go blank and focus on that future trigger pull. But the stillness in his sights inspired in him thoughts of his past, of other missions, of Dahlia. Memories and emotions so big, they couldn't be pushed out of his mind.

Boone remembered the first night he didn't dream of Bittersprings.

It was six weeks after joining up with Dahlia. She had asked too many questions at first, eagerly prodding the silent soldier at every spare moment. In-between gunshots and rounded corners, in the middle of Viper raids and gecko hunts—even once while they attempted to sneak past a deathclaw nest.

The questions seemed trivial at first: favorite color, middle name, whether or not he liked crunchy mutfruit (her favorite) and how well done he liked his mirelurk meat (extremely well done). Then she moved on to questions like, _why aren't you and Manny friends anymore? Why did you leave the NCR? Why didn't you go looking for your wife? _Real hard-hitters that left Boone sputtering for a response. She didn't push the subjects, just threw them out there like curve balls were her specialty.

Six weeks of questions and not-so-sneaky side glances left Boone weak, vulnerable to her openness. That night, against the silhouette of the desert sky, she sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and the fire reflecting in her eyes, _asking_. Her voice was tinged with sadness as she said, _Your wife, she must have been beautiful, _pushing her tangled hair behind her ears. _Carla, was it? What was she like, Boone? _

He opened his mouth to speak, but the images were blurred. Carla, all dressed up and laughing like the clinking of champagne glasses. Carla, heels clicking against the dance floor, skirt moving like a watercolor painting in the evening glow. Carla, screaming his name, perfectly manicured nails digging into his back. Carla, the only put-together woman in all of the Mojave.

Then his eyes met Dahlia's above the firelight, and Carla seemed so far away. The woman before him filled his vision. He had loved Carla because she made him forget about things. When he looked at her, she reminded him of what life could have been, before the war, before the bombs. She was glitz and glamour and romance all rolled into a pretty little pre-war package.

Dahlia was different. The Wasteland was in her veins, the bombs like a birthmark etched across her skin. The desert sun had colored her and the sand was forever under her nails and in her hair. But she didn't let these things weigh her down, in fact she seemed lighter than the heavy desert air that surrounded her, like any minute the radioactive energy that simmered under the surface might send her shooting off into the sky like a rocket. The Wastes had made her strong and in return she made the Wastes beautiful.

Boone realized then that he hadn't asked the courier a single question of his own. He knew nothing of her parents or homeland or travels. And anyone to flounce about the Wastes with as much moxy as she had was bound to have stories.

And just like that, the dreams of that canyon and the gun to his shoulder and the refugees in his sights died. The nightmares were replaced with dreams of Dahlia as a little girl, each night with a different past. He swore to himself that, when he got her out of this mess, he was going to finally ask her about it. He wanted the real story, not just his fantasies. Although he was particularly fond of the dream in which she grew up on a homestead in Kansas with her ma and pa and a hound dog named Dragon.

... … …


	11. Chapter 11

... … …

This was not the first time Dahlia had been held against her will.

Truth was, Dahlia didn't remember much of her life before Goodsprings. She had a few spotty memories of the graveyard: the sound of someone shoveling, the cold Mojave wind shifting through the Joshua trees, her bound hands. A man in a suit, a few restless Khans and a gunshot. Blackness. Then there was only endless sand—moving over her, into her mouth, her eyes, her clothes. She remembered the hard metal arms that dragged her from the grave and waking up in a house with a stranger and only her name as an empty frame to fill.

And then there was the vague, empty weight of her pockets, like something was missing after all this time. That man in the suit…he had taken something from her. It was only later when she wandered into the Mojave Express, an aimless young girl looking for work, and realized she'd been there before. Before her first death, she had been a courier. After reawakening, it was all that was left.

Little things would remind her of a life before. Brahmin drives, traveling caravans, bonnets and bonfires—these things would creep up like familiar ghosts, following her thoughts throughout the day. Once, she saw a thin-lipped woman, a coarse smile on her face while she dusted the sand from Dahlia's frock. A mother maybe? Dahlia could never be sure.

Now, as the strange body moved towards her, the searing heat inside of her drove all failed attempts at memory far away. The hands were on her, so hot, and her lower body was lifted up by one hand while the other yanked her panties off in a violent motion. The hatred she held for this man was synthetically overshadowed as the drugs pulled her in deeper and deeper, whispering unwanted desires in her brain. She heard a zipper, and felt his hardness move in between her legs.

"Beg me, Courier," the man commanded as he held her suspended above him.

There was someone else there too, like a voice from up above echoing down the dark, molding walls of a well, someone far away telling her to resist, to fight this feeling with everything she had. Her hands scoured the walls of her mind like a madwoman. Somewhere along these walls there was a rope, she was sure of it, and if she could only find it, the hands on the other end would pull her back up. But the whispers told her that the people on the surface had grown tired of waiting and were long gone. There was no way out.

For a moment, Nero saw his captive's eyes become clearer, as though she recognized him, as if she had shaken loose the drug's hold on her. But the clarity passed as quickly as it came and she could take it no longer. She leaned forward and pleaded in his ear: "Nero, please…fuck me."

… … …

When she first met Boone, Dahlia liked the look of him right off the bat. He was tall and stern, quiet and full of anger like she'd always imagined her father to be. For the first few months, she secretly held out hope that this mysterious man _was_ her father, somehow separated from her as an infant and returned to her by fate.

She knew it was nothing but a pipe dream, but she'd heard of stranger things. The desert didn't do much for dreamers, but Dahlia had always been one to hold out hope. After all, the Mojave had given her a fresh start in a stale world where most people either died clinging to the old ways or struggling to carve out a new way.

So Dahlia quizzed him constantly, hoping his life stories would jog her memories somehow, reveal their long lost connection to them both in a brilliant moment of joint realization. But the more she learned, the less she wondered about whether this man might be her father. She started to like Boone for Boone, not what he could have been to her in another life, but what he was to her in this life.

His life was a simple routine muddied with tragedy. He was not the kind of man to father a child unknowingly, and he wasn't the type to walk out on his family either. He was kind with a cruel past, a man with a clean gun and mud on his boots. Dahlia no longer thought of herself as the lone, wandering courier. They were a bonafide duo now, complete with plans that included the other and side by side bedrolls. She could no longer imagine a life without Boone by her side.

Not a good life, anyway.

... ... ...

Dahlia woke herself up shivering. Sleep obscuring the events of the past two days, Dahlia reached out to pull her blanket up around her neck. There was no blanket. Suddenly, she was aware that her body felt like ice, the sharp shards of cold digging into her feet as she swung them off the bed to get up in search of a blanket. Something yanked her back by her wrists. Her eyes snapped open in response.

She was back in Gomorrah, naked and chained to the wall above the bed. A terrible pain erupted from her inner thigh, and when she checked and saw the cruel, winding script there, the memories of last night came back loud and clear. Shame rose to her cheeks as the scenes played in her head:

She had given in, had begged him to fuck her.

The heat was unbearable, and it engulfed her as he plunged into her molten hot core. He started slow, teasing her, but quickly lost patience and began ramming into her with full force on each thrust. She saw stars as he hit all of her buttons at once, sending her into overdrive.

The drug's hold on her body was strong, and Nero's forceful affections seemed to be the only thing scratching her insatiable itch. She came more times than she could count, and still it wasn't enough. When he finished and she lay limp and unthinking on the bed, he spread her legs one last time and there was the overwhelming pain of hot coals pressing into her skin. She screamed and tried to pull away, but his hands held her still.

It was the worst pain Dahlia could remember feeling in her few, desperate and dangerous years. And she had been shot, cut and beat her fair share. Worse than the pain was the permanent branding that read "Gomorrah." It reminded her that she wasn't a free woman anymore. Well, that and being chained to the wall.

It horrified her to think that he might have been her first. Of course, when you don't remember the first twenty or so years of your life, it's hard to know for sure, but she definitely had not gotten any action in this life that she remembered. But what frightened her the most was the memory of his words: _you will experience a withdrawal like none you've ever known before_.

If he was telling the truth, then this nightmare was far from over. Dahlia hissed at the assortment of pains in between her legs, trying to remember what Nero said his end game was. Something about taking over the Strip…? Fat chance, what with Mr. House's securitrons all over the place. Besides, she wasn't defeated yet. There was no way in hell she was going to help the man who kidnapped and raped her rule New Vegas.

No, no matter what he did to her, she had to stay strong. She channeled the hurt into hatred, and she hated everything about him: his perfectly styled hair, his pressed suits, his glorified whorehouse, his Old-World-romance way of talking. He had stolen her away from the last bit of happiness she had in this world, and if he ever made the mistake of unchaining her, she was going to kill that bastard.

... ... ...


End file.
